


this dance

by maketea



Series: fictober 2019 [16]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-30 21:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21146903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maketea/pseuds/maketea
Summary: whether it was a tradition or habit, chat Noir finished every patrol by asking his lady for a dance.





	this dance

**Author's Note:**

> fictober day 16: "listen. no, really, listen."

Whether it was a tradition or habit, Chat Noir finished every patrol by asking his lady for a dance.

The first time he did it was when they were patrolling near a pub. It must have been a birthday, or the likes, as the door slammed open every once in a while to let through strings of twenty-one-year-olds holding beer cans and laughing. Those that leaned against the doorframe with cigarettes between their fingers waved to Ladybug and Chat Noir when they got there.

"No music, kitty," Ladybug said, and gestured to the noise at the pub. "And I'm not dancing to this."

The second time was by a music festival. They were far away — all they saw was the odd group of face-painted latecomers crossing the street — but Ladybug was still tapping her feet against the shingles to the music.

She made a face. "This isn't really dancing music.”

He rested his chin on his hand. “What would you consider dancing music?”

She thought for a minute, then smirked. “A string quartet.”

Sighing, Chat Noir turned back to the empty street. 

Ladybug touched his shoulder. “Don’t look so down. You know the lyrics of this song, don’t you?”

It was halfway through  _ Boulevard of Broken Dreams _ — of course he did.

She gave him a squeeze. “Then we can sing along together.”

There was a third, a fourth, an umpteenth time in which the offer to dance became more of an inside joke than anything else. Alleyways near overflowing dumpsters, chimneys above adult shops, roads where couples slinked off to do whatever couples did in the dark — he offered her a dance anywhere and everywhere, perhaps with a little hope each time that she’d say yes.

"I can't tell if you're being serious, anymore," Ladybug said one night, stretching her legs across the slanted rooftop. "You know I'll never say yes."

Chat Noir retracted his hand and took a seat on the ridge beside her. "Unless there's a string quartet, right?"

"I'm a woman of class, Chat Noir, I won't just dance to anything."

"Only the best for My Lady," he teased.

Patrol was in an odd place, that night, and though he was usually one to complain about an uneventful evening, he, for once, actually liked the silence. The lampposts shone in vain for the empty streets — not one person walked by to be akumatised.

It was nice, the quiet. They hadn't been getting a lot of that lately.

Then, there was something. A thin string of music below the rooftop, coming from the street. One, testing note.

Ladybug jolted. “Is that an akuma?”

“No, that’s…” Chat Noir couldn’t believe his ears. “A violin.”

She snorted, peering over the side of the roof. “Yeah, right.”

“Listen.”

“I’m not gonna dance with—”

“No, really, listen.”

The note became two notes, then a few more; a piece too beautiful to be caused by an akuma.

A slow, mellifluous piece that struck Adrien — not Chat Noir — straight through the chest.

He almost tilted his head up. Searched for evergreen eyes and a smiling cheek to reach up and touch with a babyish hand.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t stop looking at the street performer, not even when his eyes began to water and his grip on the ridge turned cold. The performer drew his bow across the strings, no upturned hat by his feet, violin case closed, on an empty pavement. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ladybug asked. “Chat Noir?”

He was too busy swallowing down the taste of orange juice that resurfaced in his mouth. He’d been too young to know if it was hand-squeezed or branded, but he knew after that melody stopped — after his mother…  _ left _ — the orange juice did, too.

No more carrying a cup into the drawing room and sitting on the piano stool between her legs. No more watching her white ballerina flats step on the pedal like a heartbeat. No more leaning back against her blue, perfumed dress and, orange juice in one hand, fiddling with her long pearl necklace.

He bit down on his lip. Hard.

"Hey…" Ladybug turned his face to look at her, hand cold on his feverish skin. "You okay?"

The violinist continued his nostalgic melody, but looking at Ladybug made Chat Noir swallow down an odd concoction of orange juice and tears.

"I'm fine," he said, throat raw, "just brought back a few memories."

In that pocket of silence, someone else may have asked him to talk about it. To open up. To try and make him make  _ them _ understand something between the ballerina flats and the blue dress and the pearl necklace and the orange juice.

But that wasn't feasible for them. So the pocket of silence remained a pocket of silence. 

Then, she took her hand from his face, and held it out to him.

"May I have this dance?" 

**Author's Note:**

> .....missed me ? JDNSJSJ yes i may have failed fictober but listen. i have no excuse 
> 
> twitter: chatdupain  
tumblr: rosekasa


End file.
